declaration that there was nothing like Galway.
“Why don’t you give us a song, Miles? And may be the general would learn more from it than all your speech-making.”
“To be sure,” cried the several voices together,–“to be sure; let us hear the ‘Man for Galway’!”
Sir George having joined most warmly in the request, Mr. Bodkin filled up his glass to the brim, bespoke a chorus to his chant, and clearing his voice with a deep hem, began the following ditty, to the air which Moore has since rendered immortal by the beautiful song, “Wreath the Bowl,” etc. And, although the words are well known in the west, for the information of less-favored regions, I here transcribe–
THE MAN FOR GALWAY.
To drink a toast,
A proctor roast,
Or bailiff as the case is;
To kiss your wife,
Or take your life
At ten or fifteen paces;
To keep game-cocks, to hunt the fox, To drink in punch the Solway,
With debts galore, but fun far more,– Oh, that’s “the man for Galway.” CHORUS: With debts, etc.
The King of Oude
Is mighty proud,
And so were onst the _Caysars_; But ould Giles Eyre
Would make them stare,
Av he had them with the Blazers. To the devil I fling–ould Runjeet Sing, He’s only a prince in a small way, And knows nothing at all of a six-foot wall; Oh, he’d never “do for Galway.”
CHORUS: With debts, etc.
Ye think the Blakes
Are no “great shakes;”
They’re all his blood relations. And the Bodkins sneeze
At the grim Chinese,
For they come from the _Phenaycians_. So fill the brim, and here’s to him Who’d drink in punch the Solway, With debts galore, but fun far more,– Oh, that’s “the man for Galway.” CHORUS: With debts, etc.
I much fear that the reception of this very classic ode would not be as favorable in general companies as it was on the occasion I first heard it; for certainly the applause was almost deafening, and even Sir George, the defects of whose English education left some of the allusions out of his reach, was highly amused, and laughed heartily.
The conversation once more reverted to the election; and although I was too far from those who seemed best informed on the matter to hear much, I could catch enough to discover that the feeling was a confident one. This was gratifying to me, as I had some scruples about my so long neglecting my uncle’s cause.
“We have Scariff to a man,” said Bodkin.
“And Mosey’s tenantry,” said another. “I swear, though there’s not a freehold registered on the estate, that they’ll vote, every mother’s son of them, or devil a stone of the court-house they’ll leave standing on another.”
“And may the Lord look to the returning officer!” said a third, throwing up his eyes.
“Mosey’s tenantry are droll boys; and like their landlord, more by token, they never pay any rent.”
“And what for shouldn’t they vote?” said a dry-looking little old fellow in a red waistcoat; “when I was the dead agent–“
“The dead agent!” interrupted Sir George, with a start.
“Just so,” said the old fellow, pulling down his spectacles from his forehead, and casting a half-angry look at Sir George, for what he had suspected to be a doubt of his veracity.
“The general does not know, may be, what that is,” said some one.
“You have just anticipated me,” said Sir George; “I really am in most profound ignorance.”
“It is the dead agent,” says Mr. Blake, “who always provides substitutes for any voters that may have died since the last election. A very important fact in statistics may thus be gathered from the poll-books of this county, which proves it to be the healthiest part of Europe,–a freeholder has not died in it for the last fifty years.”
“The ‘Kiltopher boys’ won’t come this time; they say there’s no use trying to vote when so many were transported last assizes for perjury.”
“They’re poor-spirited creatures,” said another.
“Not they,–they are as decent boys as any we have; they’re willing to wreck the town for fifty shillings’ worth of spirits. Besides, if they don’t vote for the county, they will for the borough.”
This declaration seemed to restore these interesting individuals to favor; and now all attention was turned towards Bodkin, who was detailing the plan of a grand attack upon the polling-booths, to be headed by himself. By this time, all the prudence and guardedness of the party had given way; whiskey was in the ascendant, and every bold stroke of election policy, every cunning artifice, every ingenious device, was detailed and applauded in a manner which proved that self-respect was not the inevitable gift of “mountain dew.”
The mirth and fun grew momentarily more boisterous, and Miles Bodkin, who had twice before been prevented proposing some toast by a telegraphic signal from the other end of the table, now swore that nothing should prevent him any longer, and rising with a smoking tumbler in his hand, delivered himself as follows:–
“No, no, Phil Blake, ye needn’t be winkin’ at me that way; it’s little I care for the spawn of the ould serpent. [Here great cheers greeted the speaker, in which, without well knowing why, I heartily joined.] I’m going to give a toast, boys,–a real good toast, none of your sentimental things about wall-flowers or the vernal equinox, or that kind of thing, but a sensible, patriotic, manly, intrepid toast,–toast you must drink in the most universal, laborious, and awful manner: do ye see now? [Loud cheers.] If any man of you here present doesn’t drain this toast to the bottom [here the speaker looked fixedly at me, as did the rest of the company]–then, by the great-gun of Athlone, I’ll make him eat the decanter, glass-stopper and all, for the good of his digestion: d’ye see now?”
The cheering at this mild determination prevented my hearing what followed; but the peroration consisted in a very glowing eulogy upon some person unknown, and a speedy return to him as member for Galway. Amidst all the noise and tumult at this critical moment, nearly every eye at the table was turned upon me; and as I concluded that they had been drinking my uncle’s health, I thundered away at the mahogany with all my energy. At length the hip-hipping over, and comparative quiet restored, I rose from my seat to return thanks; but, strange enough, Sir George Dashwood did so likewise. And there we both stood, amidst an uproar that might well have shaken the courage of more practised orators; while from every side came cries of “Hear, hear!”–“Go on, Sir George!”–“Speak out, General!”–“Sit down, Charley!”–“Confound the boy!”–“Knock the legs from under him!” etc. Not understanding why Sir George should interfere with what I regarded as my peculiar duty, I resolved not to give way, and avowed this determination in no very equivocal terms. “In that case,” said the general, “I am to suppose that the young gentleman moves an amendment to your proposition; and as the etiquette is in his favor, I yield.” Here he resumed his place amidst a most terrific scene of noise and tumult, while several humane proposals as to my treatment were made around me, and a kind suggestion thrown out to break my neck by a near neighbor. Mr. Blake at length prevailed upon the party to hear what I had to say,–for he was certain I should not detain them above a minute. The commotion having in some measure subsided, I began: “Gentlemen, as the adopted son of the worthy man whose health you have just drunk–” Heaven knows how I should have continued; but here my eloquence was met by such a roar of laughing as I never before listened to. From one end of the board to the other it was one continued shout, and went on, too, as if all the spare lungs of the party had been kept in reserve for the occasion. I turned from one to the other; I tried to smile, and seemed to participate in the joke, but failed; I frowned; I looked savagely about where I could see enough to turn my wrath thitherward,–and, as it chanced, not in vain; for Mr. Miles Bodkin, with an intuitive perception of my wishes, most suddenly ceased his mirth, and assuming a look of frowning defiance that had done him good service upon many former occasions, rose and said:–
“Well, sir, I hope you’re proud of yourself. You’ve made a nice beginning of it, and a pretty story you’ll have for your uncle. But if you’d like to break the news by a letter the general will have great pleasure in franking it for you; for, by the rock of Cashel, we’ll carry him in against all the O’Malley’s that ever cheated the sheriff.”
Scarcely were the words uttered, when I seized my wineglass, and hurled it with all my force at his head; so sudden was the act, and so true the aim, that Mr. Bodkin measured his length upon the floor ere his friends could appreciate his late eloquent effusion. The scene now became terrific; for though the redoubted Miles was _hors-de-combat_, his friends made a tremendous rush at, and would infallibly have succeeded in capturing me, had not Blake and four or five others interposed. Amidst a desperate struggle, which lasted for some minutes, I was torn from the spot, carried bodily up-stairs, and pitched headlong into my own room; where, having doubly locked the door on the outside, they left me to my own cool and not over-agreeable reflections.
CHAPTER VII.
THE FLIGHT FROM GURT-NA-MORRA.
It was by one of those sudden and inexplicable revulsions which occasionally restore to sense and intellect the maniac of years standing, that I was no sooner left alone in my chamber than I became perfectly sober. The fumes of the wine–and I had drunk deeply–were dissipated at once; my head, which but a moment before was half wild with excitement, was now cool, calm, and collected; and stranger than all, I, who had only an hour since entered the dining-room with all the unsuspecting freshness of boyhood, became, by a mighty bound, a man,–a man in all my feelings of responsibility, a man who, repelling an insult by an outrage, had resolved to stake his life upon the chance. In an instant a new era in life had opened before me; the light-headed gayety which fearlessness and youth impart was replaced by one absorbing thought,–one all-engrossing, all-pervading impression, that if I did not follow up my quarrel with Bodkin, I was dishonored and disgraced, my little knowledge of such matters not being sufficient to assure me that I was now the aggressor, and that any further steps in the affair should come from his side.
So thoroughly did my own griefs occupy me, that I had no thought for the disappointment my poor uncle was destined to meet with in hearing that the Blake interest was lost to him, and the former breach between the families irreparably widened by the events of the evening. Escape was my first thought; but how to accomplish it? The door, a solid one of Irish oak, doubly locked and bolted, defied all my efforts to break it open; the window was at least five-and-twenty feet from the ground, and not a tree near to swing into. I shouted, I called aloud, I opened the sash, and tried if any one outside were within hearing; but in vain. Weary and exhausted, I sat down upon my bed and ruminated over my fortunes. Vengeance–quick, entire, decisive vengeance–I thirsted and panted for; and every moment I lived under the insult inflicted on me seemed an age of torturing and maddening agony. I rose with a leap; a thought had just occurred to me. I drew the bed towards the window, and fastening the sheet to one of the posts with a firm knot, I twisted it into a rope, and let myself down to within about twelve feet of the ground, when I let go my hold, and dropped upon the grass beneath safe and uninjured. A thin, misty rain was falling, and I now perceived, for the first time, that in my haste I had forgotten my hat; this thought, however, gave me little uneasiness, and I took my way towards the stable, resolving, if I could, to saddle my horse and get off before any intimation of my escape reached the family.
When I gained the yard, all was quiet and deserted; the servants were doubtless enjoying themselves below stairs, and I met no one on the way. I entered the stable, threw the saddle upon “Badger,” and before five minutes from my descent from the window, was galloping towards O’Malley Castle at a pace that defied pursuit, had any one thought of it.
It was about five o’clock on a dark, wintry morning as I led my horse through the well-known defiles of out-houses and stables which formed the long line of offices to my uncle’s house. As yet no one was stirring; and as I wished to have my arrival a secret from the family, after providing for the wants of my gallant gray, I lifted the latch of the kitchen-door–no other fastening being ever thought necessary, even at night–and gently groped my way towards the stairs; all was perfectly still, and the silence now recalled me to reflection as to what course I should pursue. It was all-important that my uncle should know nothing of my quarrel, otherwise he would inevitably make it his own, and by treating me like a boy in the matter, give the whole affair the very turn I most dreaded. Then, as to Sir Harry Boyle, he would most certainly turn the whole thing into ridicule, make a good story, perhaps a song out of it, and laugh at my notions of demanding satisfaction. Considine, I knew, was my man; but then he was at Athlone,–at least so my uncle’s letter mentioned. Perhaps he might have returned; if not, to Athlone I should set off at once. So resolving, I stole noiselessly up-stairs, and reached the door of the count’s chamber; I opened it gently and entered; and though my step was almost imperceptible to myself, it was quite sufficient to alarm the watchful occupant of the room, who, springing up in his bed, demanded gruffly, “Who’s there?”
“Charles, sir,” said I, shutting the door carefully, and approaching his bedside. “Charles O’Malley, sir. I’m come to have a bit of your advice; and as the affair won’t keep, I have been obliged to disturb you.”
“Never mind, Charley,” said the count; “sit down, there’s a chair somewhere near the bed,–have you found it? There! Well now, what is it? What news of Blake?”
“Very bad; no worse. But it is not exactly _that_ I came about; I’ve got into a scrape, sir.”
“Run off with one of the daughters,” said Considine. “By jingo, I knew what those artful devils would be after.”
“Not so bad as that,” said I, laughing. “It’s just a row, a kind of squabble; something that must come–“
“Ay, ay,” said the count, brightening up; “say you so, Charley? Begad, the young ones will beat us all out of the field. Who is it with,–not old Blake himself; how was it? Tell me all.”
I immediately detailed the whole events of the preceding chapter, as well as his frequent interruptions would permit, and concluded by asking what farther step was now to be taken, as I was resolved the matter should be concluded before it came to my uncle’s ears.
“There you are all right; quite correct, my boy. But there are many points I should have wished otherwise in the conduct of the affair hitherto.”
Conceiving that he was displeased at my petulance and boldness, I was about to commence a kind of defence, when he added,–
“Because, you see,” said he, assuming an oracular tone of voice, “throwing a wine-glass, with or without wine, in a man’s face is merely, as you may observe, a mark of denial and displeasure at some observation he may have made,–not in any wise intended to injure him, further than in the wound to his honor at being so insulted, for which, of course, he must subsequently call you out. Whereas, Charley, in the present case, the view I take is different; the expression of Mr. Bodkin, as regards your uncle, was insulting to a degree,–gratuitously offensive,–and warranting a blow. Therefore, my boy, you should, under such circumstances, have preferred aiming at him with a decanter: a cut-glass decanter, well aimed and low, I have seen do effective service. However, as you remark it was your first thing of the kind, I am pleased with you–very much pleased with you. Now, then, for the next step.” So saying, he arose from his bed, and striking a light with a tinder-box, proceeded to dress himself as leisurely as if for a dinner party, talking all the while.
“I will just take Godfrey’s tax-cart and the roan mare on to Meelish, put them up at the little inn,–it is not above a mile from Bodkin’s; and I’ll go over and settle the thing for you. You must stay quiet till I come back, and not leave the house on any account. I’ve got a case of old broad barrels there that will answer you beautifully; if you were anything of a shot, I’d give you my own cross handles, but they’d only spoil your shooting.”
“I can hit a wine-glass in the stem at fifteen paces,” said I, rather nettled at the disparaging tone in which he spoke of my performance.
“I don’t care sixpence for that; the wine-glass had no pistol in his hand. Take the old German, then; see now, hold your pistol thus,–no finger on the guard there, these two on the trigger. They are not hair-triggers; drop the muzzle a bit; bend your elbow a trifle more; sight your man outside your arm,–outside, mind,–and take him in the hip, and if anywhere higher, no matter.”
By this time the count had completed his toilet, and taking the small mahogany box which contained his peace-makers under his arm, led the way towards the stables. When we reached the yard, the only person stirring there was a kind of half-witted boy, who, being about the house, was employed to run of messages from the servants, walk a stranger’s horse, or to do any of the many petty services that regular domestics contrive always to devolve upon some adopted subordinate. He was seated upon a stone step formerly used for mounting, and though the day was scarcely breaking, and the weather severe and piercing, the poor fellow was singing an Irish song, in a low monotonous tone, as he chafed a curb chain between his hands with some sand. As we came near he started up, and as he pulled off his cap to salute us, gave a sharp and piercing glance at the count, then at me, then once more upon my companion, from whom his eyes were turned to the brass-bound box beneath his arm,–when, as if seized with a sudden impulse, he started on his feet, and set off towards the house with the speed of a greyhound, not, however, before Considine’s practised eye had anticipated his plan; for throwing down the pistol-case, he dashed after him, and in an instant had seized him by the collar.
“It won’t do, Patsey,” said the count; “you can’t double on me.”
“Oh, Count, darlin’, Mister Considine avick, don’t do it, don’t now,” said the poor fellow, falling on his knees, and blubbering like an infant.
“Hold your tongue, you villain, or I’ll cut it out of your head,” said Considine.
“And so I will; but don’t do it, don’t for the love of–“
“Don’t do what, you whimpering scoundrel? What does he think I’ll do?”
“Don’t I know very well what you’re after, what you’re always after too? Oh, wirra, wirra!” Here he wrung his hands, and swayed himself backwards and forwards, a true picture of Irish grief.
“I’ll stop his blubbering,” said Considine, opening the box and taking out a pistol, which he cocked leisurely, and pointed at the poor fellow’s head; “another syllable now, and I’ll scatter your brains upon that pavement.”
“And do, and divil thank you; sure, it’s your trade.”
The coolness of the reply threw us both off our guard so completely that we burst out into a hearty fit of laughing.
“Come, come,” said the count, at last, “this will never do; if he goes on this way, we’ll have the whole house about us. Come, then, harness the roan mare; and here’s half a crown for you.”
“I wouldn’t touch the best piece in your purse,” said the poor boy; “sure it’s blood-money, no less.”
The words were scarcely spoken, when Considine seized him by the collar with one hand, and by the wrist with the other, and carried him over the yard to the stable, where, kicking open the door, he threw him on a heap of stones, adding, “If you stir now, I’ll break every bone in your body;” a threat that seemed certainly considerably increased in its terrors, from the rough gripe he had already experienced, for the lad rolled himself up like a ball, and sobbed as if his heart were breaking.
Very few minutes sufficed us now to harness the mare in the tax-cart, and when all was ready, Considine seized the whip, and locking the stable-door upon Patsey, was about to get up, when a sudden thought struck him. “Charley,” said he, “that fellow will find some means to give the alarm; we must take him with us.” So saying, he opened the door, and taking the poor fellow by the collar, flung him at my feet in the tax-cart.
We had already lost some time, and the roan mare was put to her fastest speed to make up for it. Our pace became, accordingly, a sharp one; and as the road was bad, and the tax-cart no “patent inaudible,” neither of us spoke. To me this was a great relief. The events of the last few days had given them the semblance of years, and all the reflection I could muster was little enough to make anything out of the chaotic mass,–love, mischief, and misfortune,–in which I had been involved since my leaving O’Malley Castle.
“Here we are, Charley,” said Considine, drawing up short at the door of a little country ale-house, or, in Irish parlance, _shebeen_, which stood at the meeting of four bleak roads, in a wild and barren mountain tract beside the Shannon. “Here we are, my boy! Jump out and let us be stirring.”
“Here, Patsey, my man,” said the count, unravelling the prostrate and doubly knotted figure at our feet; “lend a hand, Patsey.” Much to my astonishment, he obeyed the summons with alacrity, and proceeded to unharness the mare with the greatest despatch. My attention was, however, soon turned from him to my own more immediate concerns, and I followed my companion into the house.
“Joe,” said the count to the host, “is Mr. Bodkin up at the house this morning?”
“He’s just passed this way, sir, with Mr. Malowney of Tillnamuck, in the gig, on their way from Mr. Blake’s. They stopped here to order horses to go over to O’Malley Castle, and the gossoon is gone to look for a pair.”
“All right,” said Considine, and added, in a whisper, “we’ve done it well, Charley, to be beforehand, or the governor would have found it all out and taken the affair into his own hands. Now all you have to do is to stay quietly here till I come back, which will not be above an hour at farthest. Joe, send me the pony; keep an eye on Patsey, that he doesn’t play us a trick. The short way to Mr. Bodkin’s is through Scariff. Ay, I know it well; good-by, Charley. By the Lord, we’ll pepper him!”
These were the last words of the worthy count as he closed the door behind him, and left me to my own not very agreeable reflections. Independently of my youth and perfect ignorance of the world, which left me unable to form any correct judgment on my conduct, I knew that I had taken a great deal of wine, and was highly excited when my unhappy collision with Mr. Bodkin occurred. Whether, then, I had been betrayed into anything which could fairly have provoked his insulting retort or not, I could not remember; and now my most afflicting thought was, what opinion might be entertained of me by those at Blake’s table; and above all, what Miss Dashwood herself would think, and what narrative of the occurrence would reach her. The great effort of my last few days had been to stand well in her estimation, to appear something better in feeling, something higher in principle, than the rude and unpolished squirearchy about me; and now here was the end of it! What would she, what could she, think, but that I was the same punch-drinking, rowing, quarrelling bumpkin as those whom I had so lately been carefully endeavoring to separate myself from? How I hated myself for the excess to which passion had betrayed me, and how I detested my opponent as the cause of all my present misery. “How very differently,” thought I, “her friend the captain would have conducted himself. His quiet and gentlemanly manner would have done fully as much to wipe out any insult on his honor as I could do, and after all, would neither have disturbed the harmony of a dinner-table, nor made himself, as I shuddered to think I had, a subject of rebuke, if not of ridicule.” These harassing, torturing reflections continued to press on me, and I paced the room with my hands clasped and the perspiration upon my brow. “One thing is certain,–I can never see her again,” thought I; “this disgraceful business must, in some shape or other, become known to her, and all I have been saying these last three days rise up in judgment against this one act, and stamp me an impostor! I that decried–nay, derided–our false notion of honor. Would that Considine were come! What can keep him now?” I walked to the door; a boy belonging to the house was walking the roan before the door. “What had, then, become of Pat?” I inquired; but no one could tell. He had disappeared shortly after our arrival, and had not been seen afterwards. My own thoughts were, however, too engrossing to permit me to think more of this circumstance, and I turned again to enter the house, when I saw Considine advancing up the road at the full speed of his pony.
“Out with the mare, Charley! Be alive, my boy!–all’s settled.” So saying, he sprang from the pony and proceeded to harness the roan with the greatest haste, informing me in broken sentences, as he went on with all the arrangements.
“We are to cross the bridge of Portumna. They won the ground, and it seems Bodkin likes the spot; he shot Peyton there three years ago. Worse luck now, Charley, you know; by all the rule of chance, he can’t expect the same thing twice,–never four by honors in two deals. Didn’t say that, though. A sweet meadow, I know it well; small hillocks, like molehills; all over it. Caught him at breakfast; I don’t think he expected the message to come from us, but said it was a very polite attention,–and so it was, you know.”
So he continued to ramble on as we once more took our seats in the tax-cart and set out for the ground.
“What are you thinking of, Charley?” said the count, as I kept silent for some minutes.
“I’m thinking, sir, if I were to kill him, what I must do after.”
“Right, my boy; nothing like that, but I’ll settle all for you. Upon my conscience, if it wasn’t for the chance of his getting into another quarrel and spoiling the election, I’d go back for Godfrey; he’d like to see you break ground so prettily. And you say you’re no shot?”
“Never could do anything with the pistol to speak of, sir,” said I, remembering his rebuke of the morning.
“I don’t mind that. You’ve a good eye; never take it off him after you’re on the ground,–follow him everywhere. Poor Callaghan, that’s gone, shot his man always that way. He had a way of looking without winking that was very fatal at a short distance; a very good thing to learn, Charley, when you have a little spare time.”
Half-an-hour’s sharp driving brought us to the river side, where a boat had been provided by Considine to ferry us over. It was now about eight o’clock, and a heavy, gloomy morning. Much rain had fallen overnight, and the dark and lowering atmosphere seemed charged with more. The mountains looked twice their real size, and all the shadows were increased to an enormous extent. A very killing kind of light it was, as the count remarked.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE DUEL.
As the boatmen pulled in towards the shore we perceived, a few hundred yards off, a group of persons standing, whom we soon recognized as our opponents. “Charley,” said the count, grasping my arm tightly, as I stood up to spring on the land,–“Charley, although you are only a boy, as I may say, I have no fear for your courage; but still more than that is needful here. This Bodkin is a noted duellist, and will try to shake your nerve. Now, mind that you take everything that happens quite with an air of indifference; don’t let him think that he has any advantage over you, and you’ll see how the tables will be turned in your favor.”
“Trust to me, Count” said I; “I’ll not disgrace you.”
He pressed my hand tightly, and I thought that I discerned something like a slight twitch about the corners of his grim mouth, as if some sudden and painful thought had shot across his mind; but in a moment he was calm, and stern-looking as ever.
“Twenty minutes late, Mr. Considine,” said a short, red-faced little man, with a military frock and foraging cap, as he held out his watch in evidence.
“I can only say, Captain Malowney, that we lost no time since we parted. We had some difficulty in finding a boat; but in any case, we are here _now_, and that, I opine, is the important part of the matter.”
“Quite right,–very just indeed. Will you present me to your young friend. Very proud to make your acquaintance, sir; your uncle and I met more than once in this kind of way. I was out with him in ’92,–was it? no, I think it was ’93,–when he shot Harry Burgoyne, who, by-the-bye, was called the crack shot of our mess; but, begad, your uncle knocked his pistol hand to shivers, saying, in his dry way, ‘He must try the left hand this morning.’ Count, a little this side, if you please.”
While Considine and the captain walked a few paces apart from where I stood, I had leisure to observe my antagonist, who stood among a group of his friends, talking and laughing away in great spirits. As the tone they spoke in was not of the lowest, I could catch much of their conversation at the distance I was from them. They were discussing the last occasion that Bodkin had visited this spot, and talking of the fatal event which happened then.
“Poor devil,” said Bodkin, “it wasn’t his fault; but you see some of the –th had been showing white feathers before that, and he was obliged to go out. In fact, the colonel himself said, ‘Fight, or leave the corps.’ Well, out he came; it was a cold morning in February, with a frost the night before going off in a thin rain. Well, it seems he had the consumption or something of that sort, with a great cough and spitting of blood, and this weather made him worse; and he was very weak when he came to the ground. Now, the moment I got a glimpse of him, I said to myself, ‘He’s pluck enough, but as nervous as a lady;’ for his eye wandered all about, and his mouth was constantly twitching. ‘Take off your great-coat, Ned,’ said one of his people, when they were going to put him up; ‘take it off, man.’ He seemed to hesitate for an instant, when Michael Blake remarked, ‘Arrah, let him alone; it’s his mother makes him wear it, for the cold he has.’ They all began to laugh at this; but I kept my eye upon him, and I saw that his cheek grew quite livid and a kind of gray color, and his eyes filled up. ‘I have you now,’ said I to myself, and I shot him through the lung.”
“And this poor fellow,” thought I, “was the only son of a widowed mother.” I walked from the spot to avoid hearing further, and felt, as I did so, something like a spirit of vengeance rising within me, for the fate of one so untimely cut off.
“Here we are, all ready,” said Malowney, springing over a small fence into the adjoining field. “Take your ground, gentlemen.”
Considine took my arm and walked forward. “Charley,” said he, “I am to give the signal; I’ll drop my glove when you are to fire, but don’t look at me at all. I’ll manage to catch Bodkin’s eye; and do you watch him steadily, and fire when he does.”
“I think that the ground we are leaving behind us is rather better,” said some one.
“So it is,” said Bodkin; “but it might be troublesome to carry the young gentleman down that way,–here all is fair and easy.”
The next instant we were placed; and I well remember the first thought that struck me was, that there could be no chance of either of us escaping.
“Now then,” said the count, “I’ll walk twelve paces, turn and drop this glove; at which signal you fire, and _together_ mind. The man who reserves his shot falls by my hand.” This very summary denunciation seemed to meet general approbation, and the count strutted forth. Notwithstanding the advice of my friend, I could not help turning my eyes from Bodkin to watch the retiring figure of the count. At length he stopped; a second or two elapsed; he wheeled rapidly round, and let fall the glove. My eye glanced towards my opponent; I raised my pistol and fired. My hat turned half round upon my head, and Bodkin fell motionless to the earth. I saw the people around me rush forward; I caught two or three glances thrown at me with an expression of revengeful passion; I felt some one grasp me round the waist, and hurry me from the spot; and it was at least ten minutes after, as we were skimming the surface of the broad Shannon, before I could well collect my scattered faculties to remember all that was passing, as Considine, pointing to the two bullet-holes in my hat, remarked, “Sharp practice, Charley; it was the overcharge saved you.”
“Is he killed, sir?” I asked.
“Not quite, I believe, but as good. You took him just above the hip.”
“Can he recover?” said I, with a voice tremulous from agitation, which I vainly endeavored to conceal from my companion.
“Not if the doctor can help it,” said Considine; “for the fool keeps poking about for the ball. But now let’s think of the next step,–you’ll have to leave this, and at once, too.”
Little more passed between us. As we rowed towards the shore, Considine was following up his reflections, and I had mine,–alas! too many and too bitter to escape from.
As we neared the land a strange spectacle caught our eye. For a considerable distance along the coast crowds of country people were assembled, who, forming in groups and breaking into parties of two and three, were evidently watching with great anxiety what was taking place at the opposite side. Now, the distance was at least a mile, and therefore any part of the transaction which had been enacting there must have been quite beyond their view. While I was wondering at this, Considine cried out suddenly, “Too infamous, by Jove! We’re murdered men!”
“What do you mean?” said I.
“Don’t you see that?” said he, pointing to something black which floated from a pole at the opposite side of the river.
“Yes; what is it?”
“It’s his coat they’ve put upon an oar to show the people he’s killed,–that’s all. Every man here’s his tenant; and look–there! They’re not giving us much doubt as to their intention.”
Here a tremendous yell burst forth from the mass of people along the shore, which rising to a terrific cry sunk gradually down to a low wailing, then rose and fell again several times as the Irish death-cry filled the air and rose to Heaven, as if imploring vengeance on a murderer.
The appalling influence of the _keen_, as it is called, had been familiar to me from my infancy; but it needed the awful situation I was placed in to consummate its horrors. It was at once my accusation and my doom. I knew well–none better–the vengeful character of the Irish peasant of the west, and that my death was certain I had no doubt. The very crime that sat upon my heart quailed its courage and unnerved my arm. As the boatmen looked from us towards the shore and again at our faces, they, as if instinctively, lay upon their oars, and waited for our decision as to what course to pursue.
“Rig the spritsail, my boys,” said Considine, “and let her head lie up the river; and be alive, for I see they’re bailing a boat below the little reef there, and will be after us in no time.”
The poor fellows, who, although strangers to us, sympathizing in what they perceived to be our imminent danger, stepped the light spar which acted as mast, and shook out their scanty rag of canvas in a minute. Considine meanwhile went aft, and steadying her head with an oar, held the small craft up to the wind till she lay completely over, and as she rushed through the water, ran dipping her gun-wale through the white foam.
“Where can we make without tacking, boys?” inquired the count.
“If it blows on as fresh, sir, we’ll run you ashore within half a mile of the Castle.”
“Put an oar to leeward,” said Considine, “and keep her up more to the wind, and I promise you, my lads, you will not go home fresh and fasting if you land us where you say.”
“Here they come,” said the other boatman, as he pointed back with his finger towards a large yawl which shot suddenly from the shore, with six sturdy fellows pulling at their oars, while three or four others were endeavoring to get up their rigging, which appeared tangled and confused at the bottom of the boat; the white splash of water which fell each moment beside her showing that the process of bailing was still continued.
“Ah, then, may I never–av it isn’t the ould ‘Dolphin’ they have launched for the cruise,” said one of our fellows.
“What’s the ‘Dolphin,’ then?”
“An ould boat of the Lord’s [Lord Clanricarde’s] that didn’t see water, except when it rained, these four years, and is sun-cracked from stem to stern.”
“She can sail, however,” said Considine, who watched with a painful anxiety the rapidity of her course through the water.
“Nabocklish, she was a smuggler’s jolly-boat, and well used to it. Look how they’re pulling. God pardon them, but they’re in no blessed humor this morning.”
“Lay out upon your oars, boys; the wind’s failing us,” cried the count, as the sail flapped lazily against the mast.
“It’s no use, yer honor,” said the elder. “We’ll be only breaking our hearts to no purpose. They’re sure to catch us.”
“Do as I bade you, at all events. What’s that ahead of us there?”
“The Oat Rock, sir. A vessel with grain struck there and went down with all aboard, four years last winter. There’s no channel between it and the shore,–all sunk rocks, every inch of it. There’s the breeze.”
The canvas fell over as he spoke, and the little craft lay down to it till the foaming water bubbled over her lee bow.
“Keep her head up, sir; higher–higher still.”
But Considine little heeded the direction, steering straight for the narrow channel the man alluded to.
“Tear and ages, but you’re going right for the cloch na quirka!”
“Arrah, an’ the devil a taste I’ll be drowned for your devarsion!” said the other, springing up.
“Sit down there, and be still,” roared Considine, as he drew a pistol from the case at his feet, “if you don’t want some leaden ballast to keep you so! Here, Charley, take this, and if that fellow stirs hand or foot–you understand me.”
The two men sat sulkily in the bottom of the boat, which now was actually flying through the water. Considine’s object was a clear one. He saw that in sailing we were greatly overmatched, and that our only chance lay in reaching the narrow and dangerous channel between Oat Rock and the shore, by which we should distance the pursuit, the long reef of rocks that ran out beyond requiring a wide berth to escape from. Nothing but the danger behind us could warrant so rash a daring. The whole channel was dotted with patches of white and breaking foam,–the sure evidence of the mischief beneath,–while here and there a dash of spurting spray flew up from the dark water, where some cleft rock lay hid below the flood. Escape seemed impossible; but who would not have preferred even so slender a chance with so frightful an alternative behind him? As if to add terror to the scene, Considine had scarcely turned the boat ahead of the channel when a tremendous blackness spread over all around, the thunder pealed forth, and amidst the crashing of the hail and the bright glare of lightning a squall struck us and laid us nearly keel uppermost for several minutes. I well remember we rushed through the dark and blackened water, our little craft more than half filled, the oars floating off to leeward, and we ourselves kneeling on the bottom planks for safety. Roll after roll of loud thunder broke, as it were, just above our heads; while in the swift dashing rain that seemed to hiss around us every object was hidden, and even the other boat was lost to our view. The two poor fellows–I shall never forget their expression. One, a devout Catholic, had placed a little leaden image of a saint before him in the bow, and implored its intercession with a torturing agony of suspense that wrung my very heart. The other, apparently less alive to such consolations as his Church afforded, remained with his hands clasped, his mouth compressed, his brows knitted, and his dark eyes bent upon me with the fierce hatred of a deadly enemy; his eyes were sunken and bloodshot, and all told of some dreadful conflict within. The wild ferocity of his look fascinated my gaze, and amidst all the terrors of the scene I could not look from him. As I gazed, a second and more awful squall struck the boat; the mast went over, and with a loud report like a pistol-shot smashed at the thwart and fell over, trailing the sail along the milky sea behind us. Meanwhile the water rushed clean over us, and the boat seemed settling. At this dreadful moment the sailor’s eye was bent upon me, his lips parted, and he muttered, as if to himself, “This it is to go to sea with a murderer.” Oh, God! the agony of that moment! the heartfelt and accusing conscience that I was judged and doomed! that the brand of Cain was upon my brow! that my fellow-men had ceased forever to regard me as a brother! that I was an outcast and a wanderer forever! I bent forward till my forehead fell upon my knees, and I wept. Meanwhile the boat flew through the water, and Considine, who alone among us seemed not to lose his presence of mind, cut away the mast and sent it overboard. The storm began now to abate; and as the black mass of cloud broke from around us we beheld the other boat, also dismasted, far behind us, while all on board of her were employed in bailing out the water with which she seemed almost sinking. The curtain of mist that had hidden us from each other no sooner broke than they ceased their labors for a moment, and looking towards us, burst forth into a yell so wild, so savage, so dreadful, my very heart quailed as its cadence fell upon my ear.
“Safe, my boy,” said Considine, clapping me on the shoulder, as he steered the boat forth from its narrow path of danger, and once more reached the broad Shannon,–“safe, Charley; though we’ve had a brush for it.” In a minute more we reached the land, and drawing our gallant little craft on shore, set out for O’Malley Castle.
CHAPTER IX.
THE RETURN.
O’Malley Castle lay about four miles from the spot we landed at, and thither accordingly we bent our steps without loss of time. We had not, however, proceeded far, when, before us on the road, we perceived a mixed assemblage of horse and foot, hurrying along at a tremendous rate. The mob, which consisted of some hundred country people, were armed with sticks, scythes, and pitchforks, and although not preserving any very military aspect in their order of march, were still a force quite formidable enough to make us call a halt, and deliberate upon what we were to do.
“They’ve outflanked us, Charley,” said Considine; “however, all is not yet lost. But see, they’ve got sight of us; here they come.”
At these words, the vast mass before us came pouring along, splashing the mud on every side, and huzzaing like so many Indians. In the front ran a bare-legged boy, waving his cap to encourage the rest, who followed him at about fifty yards behind.
“Leave that fellow for me,” said the count, coolly examining the lock of his pistol; “I’ll pick him out, and load again in time for his friends’ arrival. Charley, is that a gentleman I see far back in the crowd? Yes, to be sure it is? He’s on a large horse–now he’s pressing forward; so let–no–oh–ay, it’s Godfrey O’Malley himself, and these are our own people.” Scarcely were the words out when a tremendous cheer arose from the multitude, who, recognizing us at the same instant, sprang from their horses and ran forward to welcome us. Among the foremost was the scarecrow leader, whom I at once perceived as poor Patsey, who, escaping in the morning, had returned at full speed to O’Malley Castle, and raised the whole country to my rescue. Before I could address one word to my faithful followers I was in my uncle’s arms.
“Safe, my boy, quite safe?”
“Quite safe, sir.”
“No scratch anywhere?”
“Nothing but a hat the worse, sir,” said I, showing the two bullet-holes in my headpiece.
His lip quivered as he turned and whispered something into Considine’s ear, which I heard not; but the count’s reply was, “Devil a bit, as cool as you see him this minute.”
“And Bodkin, what of him?”
“This day’s work’s his last,” said Considine; “the ball entered here. But come along, Godfrey; Charley’s new at this kind of thing, and we had better discuss matters in the house.”
Half-an-hour’s brisk trot–for we were soon supplied with horses–brought us back to the Castle, much to the disappointment of our cortege, who had been promised a _scrimmage_, and went back in very ill-humor at the breach of contract.
The breakfast-room, as we entered, was filled with my uncle’s supporters, all busily engaged over poll-books and booth tallies, in preparation for the eventful day of battle. These, however, were immediately thrown aside to hasten round me and inquire all the details of my duel. Considine, happily for me, however, assumed all the dignity of an historian, and recounted the events of the morning so much to my honor and glory, that I, who only a little before felt crushed and bowed down by the misery of my late duel, began, amidst the warm congratulations and eulogiums about me, to think I was no small hero, and in fact, something very much resembling “the man for Galway.” To this feeling a circumstance that followed assisted in contributing. While we were eagerly discussing the various results likely to arise from the meeting, a horse galloped rapidly to the door and a loud voice called out, “I can’t get off, but tell him to come here.” We rushed out and beheld Captain Malowney, Mr. Bodkin’s second, covered with mud from head to foot, and his horse reeking with foam and sweat. “I am hurrying on to Athlone for another doctor; but I’ve called to tell you that the wound is not supposed to be mortal,–he may recover yet.” Without waiting for another word, he dashed spurs into his nag and rattled down the avenue at full gallop. Mr. Bodkin’s dearest friend on earth could not have received the intelligence with more delight; and I now began to listen to the congratulations of my friends with a more tranquil spirit. My uncle, too, seemed much relieved by the information, and heard with great good temper my narrative of the few days at Gurt-na-Morra. “So then,” said he, as I concluded, “my opponent is at least a gentleman; that is a comfort.”
“Sir George Dashwood,” said I, “from all I have seen, is a remarkably nice person, and I am certain you will meet with only the fair and legitimate opposition of an opposing candidate in him,–no mean or unmanly subterfuge.”
“All right, Charley. Well, now, your affair of this morning must keep you quiet for a few days, come what will; by Monday next, when the election takes place, Bodkin’s fate will be pretty clear, one way or the other, and if matters go well, you can come into town; otherwise, I have arranged with Considine to take you over to the Continent for a year or so; but we’ll discuss all this in the evening. Now I must start on a canvass. Boyle expects to meet you at dinner to-day; he is coming from Athlone on purpose. Now, good-by!”
When my uncle had gone, I sank into a chair and fell into a musing fit over all the changes a few hours had wrought in me. From a mere boy whose most serious employment was stocking the house with game or inspecting the kennel, I had sprung at once into man’s estate, was complimented for my coolness, praised for my prowess, lauded for my discretion, by those who were my seniors by nearly half a century; talked to in a tone of confidential intimacy by my uncle, and, in a word, treated in all respects as an equal,–and such was all the work of a few hours. But so it is; the eras in life are separated by a narrow boundary,–some trifling accident, some casual _rencontre_ impels us across the Rubicon, and we pass from infancy to youth, from youth to manhood, from manhood to age, less by the slow and imperceptible step of time than by some one decisive act or passion which, occurring at a critical moment, elicits a long latent feeling, and impresses our existence with a color that tinges us for many a long year. As for me, I had cut the tie which bound me to the careless gayety of boyhood with a rude gash. In three short days I had fallen deeply, desperately in love, and had wounded, if not killed, an antagonist in a duel. As I meditated on these things, I was aroused by the noise of horses’ feet in the yard beneath. I opened the window and beheld no less a person than Captain Hammersley. He was handing a card to a servant, which he was accompanying by a verbal message; the impression of something like hostility on the part of the captain had never left my mind, and I hastened down-stairs just in time to catch him as he turned from the door.
“Ah, Mr. O’Malley!” said he, in a most courteous tone. “They told me you were not at home.”
I apologized for the blunder, and begged of him to alight and come in.
“I thank you very much, but, in fact, my hours are now numbered here. I have just received an order to join my regiment; we have been ordered for service, and Sir George has most kindly permitted my giving up my staff appointment. I could not, however, leave the country without shaking hands with you. I owe you a lesson in horsemanship, and I’m only sorry that we are not to have another day together.”
“Then you are going out to the Peninsula?” said I.
“Why, we hope so; the commander-in-chief, they say, is in great want of cavalry, and we scarcely less in want of something to do. I’m sorry you are not coming with us.”
“Would to Heaven I were!” said I, with an earnestness that almost made my brain start.
“Then, why not?”
“Unfortunately, I am peculiarly situated. My worthy uncle, who is all to me in this world, would be quite alone if I were to leave him; and although he has never said so, I know he dreads the possibility of my suggesting such a thing to him: so that, between his fears and mine, the matter is never broached by either party, nor do I think ever can be.”
“Devilish hard–but I believe you are right; something, however, may turn up yet to alter his mind, and if so, and if you do take to dragooning, don’t forget George Hammersley will be always most delighted to meet you; and so good-by, O’Malley, good-by.”
He turned his horse’s head and was already some paces off, when he returned to my side, and in a lower tone of voice said,–
“I ought to mention to you that there has been much discussion on your affair at Blake’s table, and only one opinion on the matter among all parties,–that you acted perfectly right. Sir George Dashwood,–no mean judge of such things,–quite approves of your conduct, and, I believe, wishes you to know as much; and now, once more, good-by.”
CHAPTER X.
THE ELECTION.
The important morning at length arrived, and as I looked from my bed-room window at daybreak, the crowd of carriages of all sorts and shapes decorated with banners and placards; the incessant bustle; the hurrying hither and thither; the cheering as each new detachment of voters came up, mounted on jaunting-cars, or on horses whose whole caparison consisted in a straw rope for a bridle, and a saddle of the same frail material,–all informed me that the election day was come. I lost no further time, but proceeded to dress with all possible despatch. When I appeared in the breakfast-room, it was already filled with some seventy or eighty persons of all ranks and ages, mingled confusedly together, and enjoying the hospitable fare of my uncle’s house, while they discussed all the details and prospects of the election. In the hall, the library, the large drawing-room, too, similar parties were also assembled, and as newcomers arrived, the servants were busy in preparing tables before the door and up the large terrace that ran the entire length of the building. Nothing could be more amusing than the incongruous mixture of the guests, who, with every variety of eatable that chance or inclination provided, were thus thrown into close contact, having only this in common,–the success of the cause they were engaged in. Here was the old Galway squire, with an ancestry that reached to Noah, sitting side by side with the poor cotter, whose whole earthly possession was what, in Irish phrase, is called a “potato garden,”–meaning the exactly smallest possible patch of ground out of which a very Indian-rubber conscience could presume to vote. Here sat the old simple-minded, farmer-like man, in close conversation with a little white-foreheaded, keen-eyed personage, in a black coat and eye-glass,–a flash attorney from Dublin, learned in flaws of the registry, and deep in the subtleties of election law. There was an Athlone horse-dealer, whose habitual daily practices in imposing the halt, the lame, and the blind upon the unsuspecting, for beasts of blood and mettle, well qualified him for the trickery of a county contest. Then there were scores of squireen gentry, easily recognized on common occasions by a green coat, brass buttons, dirty cords, and dirtier top-boots, a lash-whip, and a half-bred fox-hound; but now, fresh-washed for the day, they presented something the appearance of a swell mob, adjusted to the meridian of Galway. A mass of frieze-coated, brow-faced, bullet-headed peasantry filled up the large spaces, dotted here and there with a sleek, roguish-eyed priest, or some low electioneering agent detailing, for the amusement of the company, some of those cunning practices of former times which if known to the proper authorities would in all likelihood cause the talented narrator to be improving the soil of Sidney, or fishing on the banks of the Swan river; while at the head and foot of each table sat some personal friend of my uncle, whose ready tongue, and still readier pistol, made him a personage of some consequence, not more to his own people than to the enemy. While of such material were the company, the fare before them was no less varied: here some rubicund squire was deep in amalgamating the contents of a venison pasty with some of Sneyd’s oldest claret; his neighbor, less ambitious, and less erudite in such matters, was devouring rashers of bacon, with liberal potations of potteen; some pale-cheeked scion of the law, with all the dust of the Four Courts in his throat, was sipping his humble beverage of black tea beside four sturdy cattle-dealers from Ballinasloe, who were discussing hot whiskey punch and _spoleaion_ (boiled beef) at the very primitive hour of eight in the morning. Amidst the clank of decanters, the crash of knives and plates, and the jingling of glasses, the laughter and voices of the guests were audibly increasing; and the various modes of “running a buck” (_Anglice_, substituting a vote), or hunting a badger, were talked over on all sides, while the price of a _veal_ (a calf), or a voter, was disputed with all the energy of debate.
Refusing many an offered place, I went through the different rooms in search of Considine, to whom circumstances of late had somehow greatly attached me.
“Here, Charley,” cried a voice I was very familiar with,–“here’s a place I’ve been keeping for you.”
“Ah, Sir Harry, how do you do? Any of that grouse-pie to spare?”
“Abundance, my boy; but I’m afraid I can’t say as much for the liquor. I have been shouting for claret this half-hour in vain,–do get us some nutriment down here, and the Lord will reward you. What a pity it is,” he added, in a lower tone, to his neighbor–“what a pity a quart-bottle won’t hold a quart; but I’ll bring it before the House one of these days.” That he kept his word in this respect, a motion on the books of the Honorable House will bear me witness.
“Is this it?” said he, turning towards a farmer-like old man, who had put some question to him across the table; “is it the apple-pie you’ll have?”
“Many thanks to your honor,–I’d like it, av it was wholesome.”
“And why shouldn’t it be wholesome?” said Sir Harry.
“Troth, then, myself does not know; but my father, I heerd tell, died of an apple-plexy, and I’m afeerd of it.”
I at length found Considine, and learned that, as a very good account of Bodkin had arrived, there was no reason why I should not proceed to the hustings; but I was secretly charged not to take any prominent part in the day’s proceedings. My uncle I only saw for an instant,–he begged me to be careful, avoid all scrapes, and not to quit Considine. It was past ten o’clock when our formidable procession got under way, and headed towards the town of Galway. The road was, for miles, crowded with our followers; banners flying and music playing, we presented something of the spectacle of a very ragged army on its march. At every cross-road a mountain-path reinforcement awaited us, and as we wended along, our numbers were momentarily increasing; here and there along the line, some energetic and not over-sober adherent was regaling his auditory with a speech in laudation of the O’Malleys since the days of Moses, and more than one priest was heard threatening the terrors of his Church in aid of a cause to whose success he was pledged and bound. I rode beside the count, who, surrounded by a group of choice spirits, recounted the various happy inventions by which he had, on divers occasions, substituted a personal quarrel for a contest. Boyle also contributed his share of election anecdote, and one incident he related, which, I remember, amused me much at the time.
[Illustration: THE ELECTION.]
“Do you remember Billy Calvert, that came down to contest Kilkenny?” inquired Sir Harry.
“What, ever forget him!” said Considine, “with his well-powdered wig and his hessians. There never was his equal for lace ruffles and rings.”
“You never heard, may be, how he lost the election?”
“He resigned, I believe, or something of that sort.”
“No, no,” said another; “he never came forward at all. There’s some secret in it; for Tom Butler was elected without a contest.”
“Jack, I’ll tell you how it happened. I was on my way up from Cork, having finished my own business, and just carried the day, not without a push for it. When we reached,–Lady Mary was with me,–when we reached Kilkenny, the night before the election, I was not ten minutes in town till Butler heard of it, and sent off express to see me; I was at my dinner when the messenger came, and promised to go over when I’d done. But faith, Tom didn’t wait, but came rushing up-stairs himself, and dashed into the room in the greatest hurry.
“‘Harry,’ says he, ‘I’m done for; the corporation of free smiths, that were always above bribery, having voted for myself and my father before, for four pounds ten a man, won’t come forward under six guineas and whiskey. Calvert has the money; they know it. The devil a farthing we have; and we’ve been paying all our fellows that can’t read in Hennesy’s notes, and you know the bank’s broke this three weeks.’
“On he went, giving me a most disastrous picture of his cause, and concluded by asking if I could suggest anything under the circumstances.
“‘You couldn’t get a decent mob and clear the poll?’
“‘I am afraid not,’ said he, despondingly.
“‘Then I don’t see what’s to be done, if you can’t pick a fight with himself. Will he go out?’
“‘Lord knows! They say he’s so afraid of that, that it has prevented him coming down till the very day. But he is arrived now; he came in the evening, and is stopping at Walsh’s in Patrick Street.’
“‘Then I’ll see what can be done,’ said I.
“‘Is that Calvert, the little man that blushes when the Lady-Lieutenant speaks to him?’ said Lady Mary.
“‘The very man.’
“‘Would it be of any use to you if he could not come on the hustings to-morrow?’ said she, again.
“”Twould gain us the day. Half the voters don’t believe he’s here at all, and his chief agent cheated all the people on the last election; and if Calvert didn’t appear, he wouldn’t have ten votes to register. But why do you ask?’
“‘Why, that, if you like, I’ll bet you a pair of diamond ear-rings he sha’n’t show.’
“‘Done!’ said Butler. ‘And I promise a necklace into the bargain, if you win; but I’m afraid you’re only quizzing me.’
“‘Here’s my hand on it,’ said she. ‘And now let’s talk of something else.'”
As Lady Mary never asked my assistance, and as I knew she was very well able to perform whatever she undertook, you may be sure I gave myself very little trouble about the whole affair; and when they came, I went off to breakfast with Tom’s committee, not knowing anything that was to be done.
Calvert had given orders that he was to be called at eight o’clock, and so a few minutes before that time a gentle knock came to the door.
‘Come in,’ said he, thinking it was the waiter, and covering himself up in the clothes; for he was the most bashful creature ever was seen,–‘come in.’
The door opened, and what was his horror to find that a lady entered in her dressing-gown, her hair on her shoulders, very much tossed and dishevelled. The moment she came in, she closed the door and locked it, and then sat leisurely down upon a chair.
Billy’s teeth chattered, and his limbs trembled; for this was an adventure of a very novel kind for him. At last he took courage to speak.
‘I am afraid, madam,’ said he, ‘that you are under some unhappy mistake, and that you suppose this chamber is–‘
‘Mr. Calvert’s,’ said the lady, with a solemn voice, ‘is it not?’
‘Yes, madam, I am that person.’
‘Thank God!’ said the lady, with a very impressive tone. ‘Here I am safe.’
Billy grew very much puzzled at these words; but hoping that by his silence the lady would proceed to some explanation, he said no more. She, however, seemed to think that nothing further was necessary, and sat still and motionless, with her hands before her and her eyes fixed on Billy.
“‘You seem to forget me, sir?’ said she, with a faint smile.
“‘I do, indeed, madam; the half-light, the novelty of your costume, and the strangeness of the circumstance altogether must plead for me, if I appear rude enough.’
“‘I am Lady Mary Boyle,’ said she.
“‘I do remember you, madam; but may I ask–‘
“‘Yes, yes; I know what you would ask. You would say, Why are you here? How comes it that you have so far outstepped the propriety of which your whole life is an example, that alone, at such a time, you appear in the chamber of a man whose character for gallantry–‘
“‘Oh, indeed–indeed, my lady, nothing of the kind!’
“‘Ah, alas! poor defenceless women learn, too late, how constantly associated is the retiring modesty which decries, with the pleasing powers which ensure success–‘
“Here she sobbed, Billy blushed, and the clock struck nine.
“‘May I then beg, madam–‘
“‘Yes, yes, you shall hear it all; but my poor scattered faculties will not be the clearer by your hurrying me. You know, perhaps,’ continued she, ‘that my maiden name was Rogers?’ He of the blankets bowed, and she resumed, ‘It is now eighteen years since, that a young, unsuspecting, fond creature, reared in all the care and fondness of doting parents, tempted her first step in life, and trusted her fate to another’s keeping. I am that unhappy person; the other, that monster in human guise that smiled but to betray, that won but to ruin and destroy, is he whom you know as Sir Harry Boyle.’
“Here she sobbed for some minutes, wiped her eyes, and resumed her narrative. Beginning at the period of her marriage, she detailed a number of circumstances in which poor Calvert, in all his anxiety to come _au fond_ at matters, could never perceive bore upon the question in any way; but as she recounted them all with great force and precision, entreating him to bear in mind certain circumstances to which she should recur by and by, his attention was kept on the stretch, and it was only when the clock struck ten that he was fully aware how his morning was passing, and what surmises his absence might originate.
“‘May I interrupt you for a moment, dear madam? Was it nine or ten o’clock which struck last?’
“‘How should I know?’ said she, frantically. ‘What are hours and minutes to her who has passed long years of misery?’
“‘Very true, very true,’ replied he, timidly, and rather fearing for the intellect of his fair companion.
She continued. The narrative, however, so far from becoming clearer, grew gradually more confused and intricate; and as frequent references were made by the lady to some previous statement, Calvert was more than once rebuked for forgetfulness and inattention, where in reality nothing less than short-hand could have borne him through.
“‘Was it in ’93 I said that Sir Harry left me at Tuam?’
“‘Upon my life, madam, I am afraid to aver; but it strikes me–‘
“‘Gracious powers! and this is he whom I fondly trusted to make the depository of my woes! Cruel, cruel man!’
“Here she sobbed considerably for several minutes, and spoke not. A loud cheer of ‘Butler forever!’ from the mob without now burst upon their hearing, and recalled poor Calvert at once to the thought that the hours were speeding fast and no prospect of the everlasting tale coming to an end.
“‘I am deeply, most deeply grieved, my dear madam,’ said the little man, sitting up in a pyramid of blankets; ‘but hours, minutes, are most precious to me this morning. I am about to be proposed as member for Kilkenny.’
“At these words the lady straightened her figure out, threw her arms at either side, and burst into a fit of laughter which poor Calvert knew at once to be hysterics. Here was a pretty situation! The bell-rope lay against the opposite wall; and even if it did not, would he be exactly warranted in pulling it?
“‘May the devil and all his angels take Sir Harry Boyle and his whole connection to the fifth generation!’ was his sincere prayer as he sat like a Chinese juggler under his canopy.
“At length the violence of the paroxysm seemed to subside; the sobs became less frequent, the kicking less forcible, and the lady’s eyes closed, and she appeared to have fallen asleep.
“‘Now is the moment,’ said Billy. ‘If I could only get as far as my dressing-gown.’ So saying, he worked himself down noiselessly to the foot of his bed, looked fixedly at the fallen lids of the sleeping lady, and essayed one leg from the blanket. ‘Now or never,’ said he, pushing aside the curtain and preparing for a spring. One more look he cast at his companion, and then leaped forth; but just as he lit upon the floor she again roused herself, screaming with horror. Billy fell upon the bed, and rolling himself in the bedclothes, vowed never to rise again till she was out of the visible horizon.
“‘What is all this? What do you mean, sir?’ said the lady, reddening with indignation.
“‘Nothing, upon my soul, madam; it was only my dressing-gown.’
“‘Your dressing-gown!’ said she, with an emphasis worthy of Siddons; ‘a likely story for Sir Harry to believe, sir! Fie, fie, sir!’
“This last allusion seemed a settler; for the luckless Calvert heaved a profound sigh, and sunk down as if all hope had left him. ‘Butler forever!’ roared the mob. ‘Calvert forever!’ cried a boy’s voice from without. ‘Three groans for the runaway!’ answered this announcement; and a very tender inquiry of, ‘Where is he?’ was raised by some hundred mouths.
“‘Madam,’ said the almost frantic listener,–‘madam, I must get up! I must dress! I beg of you to permit me!’
“‘I have nothing to refuse, sir. Alas, disdain has long been my only portion! Get up, if you will.’
“‘But,’ said the astonished man, who was well-nigh deranged at the coolness of this reply,–‘but how am I to do so if you sit there?’
“‘Sorry for any inconvenience I may cause you; but in the crowded state of the hotel I hope you see the impropriety of my walking about the passages in this costume?’
“‘And, great God! madam, why did you come out in it?’
“A cheer from the mob prevented her reply being audible. One o’clock tolled out from the great bell of the cathedral.
“‘There’s one o’clock, as I live!’
“‘I heard it,’ said the lady.
“‘The shouts are increasing. What is that I hear? “Butler is in!” Gracious mercy! is the election over?’
“The lady stepped to the window, drew aside the curtain, and said, ‘Indeed, it would appear so. The mob are cheering Mr. Butler.’ A deafening shout burst from the street. ‘Perhaps you’d like to see the fun, so I’ll not detain you any longer. So, good-by, Mr. Calvert; and as your breakfast will be cold, in all likelihood, come down to No. 4, for Sir Harry’s a late man, and will be glad to see you.'”
CHAPTER XI.
AN ADVENTURE.
As thus we lightened the road with chatting, the increasing concourse of people, and the greater throng of carriages that filled the road, announced that we had nearly reached our destination.
“Considine,” said my uncle, riding up to where we were, “I have just got a few lines from Davern. It seems Bodkin’s people are afraid to come in; they know what they must expect, and if so, more than half of that barony is lost to our opponent.”
“Then he has no chance whatever.”
“He never had, in my opinion,” said Sir Harry.
“We’ll see soon,” said my uncle, cheerfully, and rode to the post.
The remainder of the way was occupied in discussing the various possibilities of the election, into which I was rejoiced to find that defeat never entered.
In the goodly days I speak of, a county contest was a very different thing indeed from the tame and insipid farce that now passes under that name: where a briefless barrister, bullied by both sides, sits as assessor; a few drunken voters, a radical O’Connellite grocer, a demagogue priest, a deputy grand-purple-something from the Trinity College lodge, with some half-dozen followers, shouting, “To the Devil with Peel!” or “Down with Dens!” form the whole _corp-de-ballet_. No, no; in the times I refer to the voters were some thousands in number, and the adverse parties took the field, far less dependent for success upon previous pledge or promise made them than upon the actual stratagem of the day. Each went forth, like a general to battle, surrounded by a numerous and well-chosen staff,–one party of friends, acting as commissariat, attended to the victualling of the voters, that they obtained a due, or rather undue allowance of liquor, and came properly drunk to the poll; others, again, broke into skirmishing parties, and scattered over the country, cut off the enemy’s supplies, breaking down their post-chaises, upsetting their jaunting-cars, stealing their poll-books, and kidnapping their agents. Then there were secret-service people, bribing the enemy and enticing them to desert; and lastly, there was a species of sapper-and-miner force, who invented false documents, denied the identity of the opposite party’s people, and when hard pushed, provided persons who took bribes from the enemy, and gave evidence afterwards on a petition. Amidst all these encounters of wit and ingenuity, the personal friends of the candidate formed a species of rifle brigade, picking out the enemy’s officers, and doing sore damage to their tactics by shooting a proposer or wounding a seconder,–a considerable portion of every leading agent’s fee being intended as compensation for the duels he might, could, would, should, or ought to fight during the election. Such, in brief, was a contest in the olden time. And when it is taken into consideration that it usually lasted a fortnight or three weeks; that a considerable military force was always engaged (for our Irish law permits this), and which, when nothing pressing was doing, was regularly assailed by both parties; that far more dependence was placed in a bludgeon than a pistol; and that the man who registered a vote without a cracked pate was regarded as a kind of natural phenomenon,–some faint idea may be formed how much such a scene must have contributed to the peace of the county, and the happiness and welfare of all concerned in it.
As we rode along, a loud cheer from a road that ran parallel to the one we were pursuing attracted our attention, and we perceived that the cortege of the opposite party was hastening on to the hustings. I could distinguish the Blake girls on horseback among a crowd of officers in undress, and saw something like a bonnet in the carriage-and-four which headed the procession, and which I judged to be that of Sir George Dashwood. My heart beat strongly as I strained my eyes to see if Miss Dashwood was there; but I could not discern her, and it was with a sense of relief that I reflected on the possibility of our not meeting under circumstances wherein our feelings and interests were so completely opposed. While I was engaged in making this survey, I had accidentally dropped behind my companions; my eyes were firmly fixed upon that carriage, and in the faint hope that it contained the object of all my wishes, I forgot everything else. At length the cortege entered the town, and passing beneath a heavy stone gateway, was lost to my view. I was still lost in revery, when an under-agent of my uncle’s rode up.
“Oh, Master Charles!” said he, “what’s to be done? They’ve forgotten Mr. Holmes at Woodford, and we haven’t a carriage, chaise, or even a car left to send for him.”
“Have you told Mr. Considine?” inquired I.
“And sure you know yourself how little Mr. Considine thinks of a lawyer. It’s small comfort he’d give me if I went to tell him. If it was a case of pistols or a bullet mould he’d ride back the whole way himself for them.”
“Try Sir Harry Boyle, then.”
“He’s making a speech this minute before the court-house.”
This had sufficed to show me how far behind my companions I had been loitering, when a cheer from the distant road again turned my eyes in that direction; it was the Dashwood carriage returning after leaving Sir George at the hustings. The head of the britska, before thrown open, was now closed, and I could not make out if any one were inside.
“Devil a doubt of it,” said the agent, in answer to some question of a farmer who rode beside him; “will you stand to me?”
“Troth, to be sure I will.”
“Here goes, then,” said he, gathering up his reins and turning his horse towards the fence at the roadside; “follow me now, boys.”
The order was well obeyed; for when he had cleared the ditch, a dozen stout country fellows, well mounted, were beside him. Away they went, at a hunting pace, taking every leap before them, and heading towards the road before us.
Without thinking further of the matter, I was laughing at the droll effect the line of frieze coats presented as they rode side by side over the stone-walls, when an observation near me aroused my attention.
“Ah, then, av they know anything of Tim Finucane, they’ll give it up peaceably; it’s little he’d think of taking the coach from under the judge himself.”
“What are they about, boys?” said I.
“Goin’ to take the chaise-and-four forninst ye, yer honor,” said the man.
I waited not to hear more, but darting spurs into my horse’s sides, cleared the fence in one bound. My horse, a strong-knit half-breed, was as fast as a racer for a short distance; so that when the agent and his party had come up with the carriage, I was only a few hundred yards behind. I shouted out with all my might, but they either heard not or heeded not, for scarcely was the first man over the fence into the road when the postilion on the leader was felled to the ground, and his place supplied by his slayer; the boy on the wheeler shared the same fate, and in an instant, so well managed was the attack, the carriage was in possession of the assailants. Four stout fellows had climbed into the box and the rumble, and six others were climbing to the interior, regardless of the aid of steps. By this time the Dashwood party had got the alarm, and returned in full force, not, however, before the other had laid whip to the horses and set out in full gallop; and now commenced the most terrific race I ever witnessed.
The four carriage-horses, which were the property of Sir George, were English thorough-breds of great value, and, totally unaccustomed to the treatment they experienced, dashed forward at a pace that threatened annihilation to the carriage at every bound. The pursuers, though well mounted, were speedily distanced, but followed at a pace that in the end was certain to overtake the carriage. As for myself, I rode on beside the road at the full speed of my horse, shouting, cursing, imploring, execrating, and beseeching at turns, but all in vain; the yells and shouts of the pursuers and pursued drowned all other sounds, except when the thundering crash of the horses’ feet rose above all. The road, like most western Irish roads until the present century, lay straight as an arrow for miles, regardless of every opposing barrier, and in the instance in question, crossed a mountain at its very highest point. Towards this pinnacle the pace had been tremendous; but owing to the higher breeding of the cattle, the carriage party had still the advance, and when they reached the top they proclaimed the victory by a cheer of triumph and derision. The carriage disappeared beneath the crest of the mountain, and the pursuers halted as if disposed to relinquish the chase.
“Come on, boys; never give up,” cried I, springing over into the road, and heading the party to which by every right I was opposed.
It was no time for deliberation, and they followed me with a hearty cheer that convinced me I was unknown. The next instant we were on the mountain top, and beheld the carriage half way down beneath us, still galloping at full stretch.
“We have them now,” said a voice behind me; “they’ll never turn Lurra Bridge, if we only press on.”
The speaker was right; the road at the mountain foot turned at a perfect right angle, and then crossed a lofty one-arched bridge over a mountain torrent that ran deep and boisterously beneath. On we went, gaining at every stride; for the fellows who rode postilion well knew what was before them, and slackened their pace to secure a safe turning. A yell of victory arose from the pursuers, but was answered by the others with a cheer of defiance. The space was now scarcely two hundred yards between us, when the head of the britska was flung down, and a figure that I at once recognized as the redoubted Tim Finucane, one of the boldest and most reckless fellows in the county, was seen standing on the seat, holding,–gracious Heavens! it was true,–holding in his arms the apparently lifeless figure of Miss Dashwood.
“Hold in!” shouted the ruffian, with a voice that rose high above all the other sounds. “Hold in! or by the Eternal, I’ll throw her, body and bones, into the Lurra Gash!” for such was the torrent called that boiled and foamed a few yards before us.
[Illustration: THE RESCUE.]
He had by this time got firmly planted on the hind seat, and held the drooping form on one arm with all the ease of a giant’s grasp.
“For the love of God!” said I, “pull up. I know him well; he’ll do it to a certainty if you press on.”
“And we know you, too,” said a ruffianly fellow, with a dark whisker meeting beneath his chin, “and have some scores to settle ere we part–“
But I heard no more. With one tremendous effort I dashed my horse forward. The carriage turned an angle of the road, for an instant was out of sight, another moment I was behind it.
“Stop!” I shouted, with a last effort, but in vain. The horses, maddened and infuriated, sprang forward, and heedless of all efforts to turn them the leaders sprang over the low parapet of the bridge, and hanging for a second by the traces, fell with a crash into the swollen torrent beneath. By this time I was beside the carriage. Finucane had now clambered to the box, and regardless of the death and ruin around, bent upon his murderous object, he lifted the light and girlish form above his head, bent backwards as if to give greater impulse to his effort, when, twining my lash around my wrist, I levelled my heavy and loaded hunting-whip at his head. The weighted ball of lead struck him exactly beneath his hat; he staggered, his hands relaxed, and he fell lifeless to the ground; the same instant I was felled to the earth by a blow from behind, and saw no more.
CHAPTER XII.
MICKEY FREE.
Nearly three weeks followed the event I have just narrated ere I again was restored to consciousness. The blow by which I was felled–from what hand coming it was never after discovered–had brought on concussion of the brain, and for several days my life was despaired of. As by slow steps I advanced towards recovery, I learned from Considine that Miss Dashwood, whose life was saved by my interference, had testified, in the warmest manner, her gratitude, and that Sir George had, up to the period of his leaving the country, never omitted a single day to ride over and inquire for me.
“You know, of course,” said the count, supposing such news was the most likely to interest me,–“you know we beat them?”
“No. Pray tell me all. They’ve not let me hear anything hitherto.”
“One day finished the whole affair. We polled man for man till past two o’clock, when our fellows lost all patience and beat their tallies out of the town. The police came up, but they beat the police; then they got soldiers, but, begad, they were too strong for them, too. Sir George witnessed it all, and knowing besides how little chance he had of success, deemed it best to give in; so that a little before five o’clock he resigned. I must say no man could behave better. He came across the hustings and shook hands with Godfrey; and as the news of the _scrimmage_ with his daughter had just arrived, said that he was sorry his prospect of success had not been greater, that in resigning he might testify how deeply he felt the debt the O’Malleys had laid him under.”
“And my uncle, how did he receive his advances?”
“Like his own honest self,–grasped his hand firmly; and upon my soul, I think he was half sorry that he gained the day. Do you know, he took a mighty fancy to that blue-eyed daughter of the old general’s. Faith, Charley, if he was some twenty years younger, I would not say but–Come, come, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings; but I have been staying here too long. I’ll send up Mickey to sit with you. Mind and don’t be talking too much to him.”
So saying, the worthy count left the room fully impressed that in hinting at the possibility of my uncle’s marrying again, he had said something to ruffle my temper.
For the next two or three weeks my life was one of the most tiresome monotony. Strict injunctions had been given by the doctors to avoid exciting me; and consequently, every one that came in walked on tiptoe, spoke in whispers, and left me in five minutes. Reading was absolutely forbidden; and with a sombre half-light to sit in, and chicken broth to support nature, I dragged out as dreary an existence as any gentleman west of Athlone.
Whenever my uncle or Considine were not in the room, my companion was my own servant, Michael, or as he was better known, “Mickey Free.” Now, had Mickey been left to his own free and unrestricted devices, the time would not have hung so heavily; for among Mike’s manifold gifts he was possessed of a very great flow of gossiping conversation. He knew all that was doing in the county, and never was barren in his information wherever his imagination could come into play. Mickey was the best hurler in the barony, no mean performer on the violin, could dance the national bolero of “Tatter Jack Walsh” in a way that charmed more than one soft heart beneath a red woolsey bodice, and had, withal, the peculiar free-and-easy devil-may-care kind of off-hand Irish way that never deserted him in the midst of his wiliest and most subtle moments, giving to a very deep and cunning fellow all the apparent frankness and openness of a country lad.
He had attached himself to me as a kind of sporting companion; and growing daily more and more useful, had been gradually admitted to the honors of the kitchen and the prerogatives of cast clothes, without ever having been actually engaged as a servant; and while thus no warrant officer, as, in fact, he discharged all his duties well and punctually, was rated among the ship’s company, though no one could say at what precise period he changed his caterpillar existence and became the gay butterfly with cords and tops, a striped vest, and a most knowing jerry hat who stalked about the stable-yard and bullied the helpers. Such was Mike. He had made his fortune, such as it was, and had a most becoming pride in the fact that he made himself indispensable to an establishment which, before he entered it, never knew the want of him. As for me, he was everything to me. Mike informed me what horse was wrong, why the chestnut mare couldn’t go out, and why the black horse could. He knew the arrival of a new covey of partridge quicker than the “Morning Post” does of a noble family from the Continent, and could tell their whereabouts twice as accurately. But his talents took a wider range than field sports afford, and he was the faithful chronicler of every wake, station, wedding, or christening for miles round; and as I took no small pleasure in those very national pastimes, the information was of great value to me. To conclude this brief sketch, Mike was a devout Catholic in the same sense that he was enthusiastic about anything,–that is, he believed and obeyed exactly as far as suited his own peculiar notions of comfort and happiness. Beyond _that_, his scepticism stepped in and saved him from inconvenience; and though he might have been somewhat puzzled to reduce his faith to a rubric, still it answered his purpose, and that was all he wanted. Such, in short, was my valet, Mickey Free, and who, had not heavy injunctions been laid on him as to silence and discretion, would well have lightened my weary hours.
“Ah, then, Misther Charles!” said he, with a half-suppressed yawn at the long period of probation his tongue had been undergoing in silence,–“ah, then, but ye were mighty near it!”
“Near what?” said I.
“Faith, then, myself doesn’t well know. Some say it’s purgathory; but it’s hard to tell.”
“I thought you were too good a Catholic, Mickey, to show any doubts on the matter?”
“May be I am; may be I ain’t,” was the cautious reply.
“Wouldn’t Father Roach explain any of your difficulties for you, if you went over to him?”
“Faix, it’s little I’d mind his explainings.”
“And why not?”
“Easy enough. If you ax ould Miles there, without, what does he be doing with all the powther and shot, wouldn’t he tell you he’s shooting the rooks, and the magpies, and some other varmint? But myself knows he sells it to Widow Casey, at two-and-fourpence a pound; so belikes, Father Roach may be shooting away at the poor souls in purgathory, that all this time are enjoying the hoith of fine living in heaven, ye understand.”
“And you think that’s the way of it, Mickey?”
“Troth, it’s likely. Anyhow, I know its not the place they make it out.”
“Why, how do you mean?”
“Well, then, I’ll tell you, Misther Charles; but you must not be saying anything about it afther, for I don’t like to talk about these kind of things.”
Having pledged myself to the requisite silence and secrecy, Mickey began:–
“May be you heard tell of the way my father, rest his soul wherever he is, came to his end. Well, I needn’t mind particulars, but, in short, he was murdered in Ballinasloe one night, when he was baitin’ the whole town with a blackthorn stick he had; more by token, a piece of a scythe was stuck at the end of it,–a nate weapon, and one he was mighty partial to; but those murdering thieves, the cattle-dealers, that never cared for diversion of any kind, fell on him and broke his skull.
“Well, we had a very agreeable wake, and plenty of the best of everything, and to spare, and I thought it was all over; but somehow, though I paid Father Roach fifteen shillings, and made him mighty drunk, he always gave me a black look wherever I met him, and when I took off my hat, he’d turn away his head displeased like.
“‘Murder and ages,’ says I, ‘what’s this for?’ But as I’ve a light heart, I bore up, and didn’t think more about it. One day, however, I was coming home from Athlone market, by myself on the road, when Father Roach overtook me. ‘Devil a one a me ‘ill take any notice of you now,’ says I, ‘and we’ll see what’ll come out of it.’ So the priest rid up and looked me straight in the face.
“‘Mickey,’ says he,–‘Mickey.’
“‘Father,’ says I.
“‘Is it that way you salute your clargy,’ says he, ‘with your caubeen on your head?’
“‘Faix,’ says I, ‘it’s little ye mind whether it’s an or aff; for you never take the trouble to say, “By your leave,” or “Damn your soul!” or any other politeness when we meet.’
“‘You’re an ungrateful creature,’ says he; ‘and if you only knew, you’d be trembling in your skin before me, this minute.’
“‘Devil a tremble,’ says I, ‘after walking six miles this way.’
“‘You’re an obstinate, hard-hearted sinner,’ says he; ‘and it’s no use in telling you.’
“‘Telling me what?’ says I; for I was getting curious to make out what he meant.
“‘Mickey,’ says he, changing his voice, and putting his head down close to me,–‘Mickey, I saw your father last night.’
“‘The saints be merciful to us!’ said I, ‘did ye?’
“‘I did,’ says he.
“‘Tear an ages,’ says I, ‘did he tell you what he did with the new corduroys he bought in the fair?’
“‘Oh, then, you are a could-hearted creature!’ says he, ‘and I’ll not lose time with you.’ With that he was going to ride away, when I took hold of the bridle.
“‘Father, darling,’ says I, ‘God pardon me, but them breeches is goin’ between me an’ my night’s rest; but tell me about my father?’
“‘Oh, then, he’s in a melancholy state!’
“‘Whereabouts is he?’ says I.
“‘In purgathory,’ says he; ‘but he won’t be there long.’
“‘Well,’ says I, ‘that’s a comfort, anyhow.’
“‘I am glad you think so,’ says he; ‘but there’s more of the other opinion.’
“‘What’s _that?_’ says I.
“‘That hell’s worse.’
“‘Oh, melia-murther!’ says I, ‘is that it?’
“‘Ay, that’s it.’
“Well, I was so terrified and frightened, I said nothing for some time, but trotted along beside the priest’s horse.
“‘Father,’ says I, ‘how long will it be before they send him where you know?’
“‘It will not be long now,’ says he, ‘for they’re tired entirely with him; they’ve no peace night or day,’ says he. ‘Mickey, your father is a mighty hard man.’
“‘True for you, Father Roach,’ says I to myself; ‘av he had only the ould stick with the scythe in it, I wish them joy of his company.’
“‘Mickey,’ says he, ‘I see you’re grieved, and I don’t wonder; sure, it’s a great disgrace to a decent family.’
“‘Troth, it is,’ says I; ‘but my father always liked low company. Could nothing be done for him now, Father Roach?’ says I, looking up in the priest’s face.
“‘I’m greatly afraid, Mickey, he was a bad man, a very bad man.’
“‘And ye think he’ll go there?’ says I.
“‘Indeed, Mickey, I have my fears.’
“‘Upon my conscience,’ says I, ‘I believe you’re right; he was always a restless crayture.’
“‘But it doesn’t depind on him,’ says the priest, crossly.
“‘And, then, who then?’ says I.
“‘Upon yourself, Mickey Free,’ says he, ‘God pardon you for it, too!’
“‘Upon me?’ says I.
“‘Troth, no less,’ says he; ‘how many Masses was said for your father’s soul; how many Aves; how many Paters? Answer me.’
“‘Devil a one of me knows!–may be twenty.’
“‘Twenty, twenty!–no, nor one.’
“‘And why not?’ says I; ‘what for wouldn’t you be helping a poor crayture out of trouble, when it wouldn’t cost you more nor a handful of prayers?’
“‘Mickey, I see,’ says he, in a solemn tone, ‘you’re worse nor a haythen; but ye couldn’t be other, ye never come to yer duties.’
“‘Well, Father,’ says I, Looking very penitent, ‘how many Masses would get him out?’
“‘Now you talk like a sensible man,’ says he. ‘Now, Mickey, I’ve hopes for you. Let me see,’ here he went countin’ upon his fingers, and numberin’ to himself for five minutes. ‘Mickey,’ says he, ‘I’ve a batch coming out on Tuesday week, and if you were to make great exertions, perhaps your father could come with them; that is, av they have made no objections.’
“‘And what for would they?’ says I; ‘he was always the hoith of company, and av singing’s allowed in them parts–‘
“‘God forgive you, Mickey, but yer in a benighted state,’ says he, sighing.
“‘Well,’ says I, ‘how’ll we get him out on Tuesday week? For that’s bringing things to a focus.’
“‘Two Masses in the morning, fastin’,’ says Father Roach, half aloud, ‘is two, and two in the afternoon is four, and two at vespers is six,’ says he; ‘six Masses a day for nine days is close by sixty Masses,–say sixty,’ says he; ‘and they’ll cost you–mind, Mickey, and don’t be telling it again, for it’s only to yourself I’d make them so cheap–a matter of three pounds.’
“‘Three pounds!’ says I; ‘be-gorra ye might as well ax me to give you the rock of Cashel.’
“‘I’m sorry for ye, Mickey,’ says he, gatherin’ up the reins to ride off,–‘I’m sorry for ye; and the time will come when the neglect of your poor father will be a sore stroke agin yourself.’
“‘Wait a bit, your reverence,’ says I,–‘wait a bit. Would forty shillings get him out?’
“‘Av course it wouldn’t,’ says he.
“‘May be,’ says I, coaxing,–‘may be, av you said that his son was a poor boy that lived by his indhustry, and the times was bad–‘
“‘Not the least use,’ says he.
“‘Arrah, but it’s hard-hearted they are,’ thinks I. ‘Well, see now, I’ll give you the money, but I can’t afford it all at onst; but I’ll pay five shillings a week. Will that do?’
“‘I’ll do my endayvors,’ says Father Roach; ‘and I’ll speak to them to treat him peaceably in the meantime.’
“‘Long life to yer reverence, and do. Well, here now, here’s five hogs to begin with; and, musha, but I never thought I’d be spending my loose change that way.’
“Father Roach put the six tinpinnies in the pocket of his black leather breeches, said something in Latin, bid me good-morning, and rode off.
“Well, to make my story short, I worked late and early to pay the five shillings a week, and I did do it for three weeks regular; then I brought four and fourpence; then it came down to one and tenpence halfpenny, then ninepence, and at last I had nothing at all to bring.
“‘Mickey Free,’ says the priest, ‘ye must stir yourself. Your father is mighty displeased at the way you’ve been doing of late; and av ye kept yer word, he’d be near out by this time.’
“‘Troth,’ says I, ‘it’s a very expensive place.’
“‘By coorse it is,’ says he; ‘sure all the quality of the land’s there. But, Mickey, my man, with a little exertion, your father’s business is done. What are you jingling in your pocket there?’
“‘It’s ten shillings, your reverence, I have to buy seed potatoes.’
“‘Hand it here, my son. Isn’t it better your father would be enjoying himself in paradise, than if ye were to have all the potatoes in Ireland?’
“‘And how do ye know,’ says I, ‘he’s so near out?’
“‘How do I know,–how do I know, is it? Didn’t I see him?’
“‘See him! Tear an ages, was you down there again?’
“‘I was,’ says he; ‘I was down there for three quarters of an hour yesterday evening, getting out Luke Kennedy’s mother. Decent people the Kennedy’s; never spared expense.’
“‘And ye seen my father?’ says I.
“‘I did,’ says he; ‘he had an ould flannel waistcoat on, and a pipe sticking out of the pocket av it.’
“‘That’s him,’ says I. ‘Had he a hairy cap?’
“‘I didn’t mind the cap,’ says he; ‘but av coorse he wouldn’t have it on his head in that place.’
“‘Thrue for you,’ says I. ‘Did he speak to you?’
“‘He did,’ says Father Roach; ‘he spoke very hard about the way he was treated down there; that they was always jibin’ and jeerin’ him about _drink_, and fightin’, and the course he led up here, and that it was a queer thing, for the matter of ten shillings, he was to be kept there so long.’
“‘Well,’ says I, taking out the ten shillings and counting it with one hand, ‘we must do our best, anyhow; and ye think this’ll get him out surely?’
“‘I know it will,’ says he; ‘for when Luke’s mother was leaving the place, and yer father saw the door open, he made a rush at it, and, be-gorra, before it was shut he got his head and one shoulder outside av it,–so that, ye see, a thrifle more’ll do it.’
“‘Faix, and yer reverence,’ says I, ‘you’ve lightened my heart this morning.’ And I put my money back again in my pocket.
“‘Why, what do you mean?’ says he, growing very red, for he was angry.
“‘Just this,’ says I, ‘that I’ve saved my money; for av it was my father you seen, and that he got his head and one shoulder outside the door, oh, then, by the powers!’ says I, ‘the devil a jail or jailer from hell to Connaught id hould him. So, Father Roach, I wish you the top of the morning.’ And I went away laughing; and from that day to this I never heard more of purgathory; and ye see, Master Charles, I think I was right.”
Scarcely had Mike concluded when my door was suddenly burst open, and Sir Harry Boyle, without assuming any of his usual precautions respecting silence and quiet, rushed into the room, a broad grin upon his honest features, and his eyes twinkling in a way that evidently showed me something had occurred to amuse him.
“By Jove, Charley, I mustn’t keep it from you; it’s too good a thing not to tell you. Do you remember that very essenced young gentleman who accompanied Sir George Dashwood from Dublin, as a kind of electioneering friend?”
“Do you mean Mr. Prettyman?”
“The very man; he was, you are aware, an under-secretary in some government department. Well, it seems that he had come down among us poor savages as much from motives of learned research and scientific inquiry, as though we had been South Sea Islanders; report had gifted us humble Galwayans with some very peculiar traits, and this gifted individual resolved to record them. Whether the election week might have sufficed his appetite for wonders I know not; but he was peaceably taking his departure from the west on Saturday last, when Phil Macnamara met him, and pressed him to dine that day with a few friends at his house. You know Phil; so that when I tell you Sam Burke, of Greenmount, and Roger Doolan were of the party, I need not say that the English traveller was not left to his own unassisted imagination for his facts. Such anecdotes of our habits and customs as they crammed him with, it would appear, never were heard before; nothing was too hot or too heavy for the luckless cockney, who, when not sipping his claret, was faithfully recording in his tablet the mems. for a very brilliant and very original work on Ireland.
“Fine country, splendid country; glorious people,–gifted, brave, intelligent, but not happy,–alas! Mr. Macnamara, not happy. But we don’t know you, gentlemen,–we don’t indeed,–at the other side of the Channel. Our notions regarding you are far, very far from just.”
“I hope and trust,” said old Burke, “you’ll help them to a better understanding ere long.”
“Such, my dear sir, will be the proudest task of my life. The facts I have heard here this evening have made so profound an impression upon me that I burn for the moment when I can make them known to the world at large. To think–just to think that a portion of this beautiful island should be steeped in poverty; that the people not only live upon the mere potatoes, but are absolutely obliged to wear the skins for raiment, as Mr. Doolan has just mentioned to me!”
“‘Which accounts for our cultivation of lumpers,’ added Mr. Doolan, ‘they being the largest species of the root, and best adapted for wearing apparel.’
“‘I should deem myself culpable–indeed I should–did I not inform my countrymen upon the real condition of this great country.’
“‘Why, after your great opportunities for judging,’ said Phil, ‘you ought to speak out. You’ve seen us in a way, I may fairly affirm, few Englishmen have, and heard more.’
“‘That’s it,–that’s the very thing, Mr. Macnamara. I’ve looked at you more closely; I’ve watched you more narrowly; I’ve witnessed what the French call your _vie intime_.’
“‘Begad you have,’ said old Burke, with a grin, ‘and profited by it to the utmost.’
“‘I’ve been a spectator of your election contests; I’ve partaken of your